Going Cold
by Oppressed Madness
Summary: A curse is casted on Sherlock that turns him to stone. John is by his side as both he and Sherlock come to terms with their new reality.


_Ding-dong._

Sherlock huffed as he flipped another page of _The Guardian_. He had already read the paper but he refused to put it down in efforts to spite John. The paper really was boring, as usual, but Sherlock knew for a fact that John liked to read it with his morning coffee, which John was now taking. Sherlock also knew that John was running late and would be busy all morning at the clinic so if Sherlock could manage to keep the paper out of John's hands during breakfast, John would have no way to access the news until his lunch break. Compared to Sherlock, John had relatively no idiosyncrasies, he was a flexible man, but John's morning routine seemed to be one set in stone. Sherlock knew that a break in John's morning routine would make John tense, which in turn would make Sherlock happy.

 _Ding-dong._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He really wished John would get the door and had he been talking to John, he would have demanded that John do so. Sherlock knew for a fact that John's reluctance to answer the door was a passive-aggressive counter to Sherlock's behaviour because up until last week when they had their major blowout, the bell was in the freezer. John knew that the sound irritated Sherlock. Sherlock suspected that John purposely hired someone to ring the doorbell at eight in the morning just to annoy him. Since he couldn't call on John…

"Mrs. Hudson!"

 _Ding-dong._

"Mrs. Hudson!"

 _Ding-dong._

She wasn't responding to Sherlock either. Despite her old age, Mrs. Hudson still had relatively good hearing so Sherlock guessed that she must have been in the shower, therefore unable to answer the door. Sherlock huffed one more time before getting up to answer the door himself, taking _The Guardian_ with him.

Sherlock restrained himself from rolling his eyes as he opened the door. Unimpressed, he began to deduce the woman in front of him. He deduced that she was in her mid-thirties and childless. Her raven hair and alabaster skin along with her facial features indicated that she was from South-west Asia, probably from Turkey or Armenia. She was most likely nomadic as well. Before Sherlock could deduce any further the woman began to speak. Sherlock didn't understand the words but he recognised that it sounded similar to Turkish. Sherlock was fluent in Turkish so he concluded that it was probably an older dialect he had yet to acquaint himself to.

Sherlock suddenly felt light-headed but his body felt as though it was too heavy for him to move. He gripped the doorknob tightly in effort to keep himself upright but he felt as though he was getting weaker by the second. He felt as if he would die any minute. Sherlock's vision became blurry as he tried to take one look last look at the woman in front of him before passing out.

"Sherlock!"

John knocked his chair over in his rush to Sherlock.

"Sherlock!"

Franticly, John began to assess Sherlock. His pulse was shallow and slow. He body felt cold, as if he was dead and he was barely breathing. John slapped Sherlock's cheek in efforts to rouse Sherlock. When he failed, he pulled out his cell phone to call 999.

"Sherlock, please don't do this to me." John pleaded desperately. "Wake up and tell me what's wrong."

The ambulance took six and a half minutes to get to Baker Street instead of the usual eight. Despite that, John still felt like it was an eternity as he sat helpless by Sherlock's side, failing to wake him. Mrs. Hudson had come out just in time to see the ambulance take Sherlock away. Before joining Sherlock in the ambulance, John gave a quick summary of Sherlock's condition and promised he'd update her when he had more information.

Before he had even opened his eyes, Sherlock knew he had to be in a hospital. The strange tightness of IV needle below his skin and the distinctive smell of microbial disinfectant could only indicate that he was. Plus, he did remember passing out. He must have been out long and John must have been seriously worried to have brought him here.

"Sherlock," John whispered breathlessly.

Sherlock smiled as he noticed John was holding his hands. At that moment, despite still feeling a bit ill, Sherlock felt so light and happy. He was glad to now that John was still talking to him.

"John, I… I'm…"

"Don't say anything, Sherlock," said John, cutting off Sherlock. He already knew that Sherlock wanted to apologise but that was no longer important. "I'm just glad to have you back with me."

There was a knock on the door before the doctor that attended to Sherlock entered.

"Ah! Mr. Holmes, I'm glad to see you're awake. I'm Dr. Stevens and I've been attending to you since you got here."

Happily married, one child, wife's pregnant with a second child. It's a difficult pregnancy. Sherlock mentally deduced the man as he entered. John quickly glanced at him, indicating that he knew what Sherlock was doing.

"I'm sure you'll like to know about your condition?"

"No, not at all." Sherlock answered sarcastically. The doctor flashed an angry glare before returning to his neutral face.

"You gave Dr. Watson here quite a scare but it's nothing too serious to worry about. Just a bit of malnourishment and dehydration. Dr. Watson also told me you're prone to extended bouts of insomnia. All of that together is why you passed out."

"Yes. Yes. I know."

Sherlock was bored of having this conversation. This wasn't the first time he'd passed out from not eating and not sleeping and when they weren't fighting, John constantly nagged him about his health. Why couldn't anyone understand that his body was not as important to him as solving cases?

"I've told him countless times that he has to start taking care of himself, doctor but Sherlock's kind of stubborn that way."

"When can I go?"

Sherlock had no interest in the pointless banter going on before him. He had plans for the day, important things to do and the sooner he got out of the hospital, the sooner he could get actual interesting things done.

"We're keeping you overnight for observation and to get some nutrients into you, see how you're eating. If everything check's out, you'll be free to go home tomorrow. Do you have anymore questions?"

"When can I go?" Sherlock asked again with more annoyance in his voice than before.

"Pay him no mind, doctor. Sherlock's just a surly, busy body. It's okay, you can go now."

The doctor gave an awkward smile before leaving.

"You really did give me a scare, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry, John but I didn't intend for this to happen."

"Oh really?" asked John incredulously. "So your body just conked out on you despite how well you take care of it?"

Sherlock glared at John. He could see that John was just starting another pointless fight. It was the only thing they did when they stopped stop not talking to one another. Sherlock rolled on his side to have his back face John. He wasn't going to engage anymore.

"Yep! This is really mature of you, Sherlock. How long do you expect this to last?"

There was a hint of anger in John's tone. This saddened Sherlock a little bit. A few minutes ago, he felt as though John had forgiven him and they were about to move on.

Sherlock still did not respond.

"For the record I'm still not talking to you either. Now I'm going to call Mrs. Hudson and tell her what's going on because I promised her but that's it. I'm done with you and this crap."

With that, John stormed out of the room.

The next day, a nutritionist came to consult Sherlock. Later, at noon, Dr. Stevens came by with release papers. He inquired about John's absence but Sherlock ignored him. Sherlock simply called himself a cab.

Sherlock came home to an empty house, which was not unexpected but he had secretly hoped that John would be there. Sherlock shrugged it off. He still felt somewhat tired so he went straight to his room and collapsed onto his bed.

Sherlock awoke later to find John and Mrs. Hudson in the living room, chatting.

"Sherlock! Glad to see you're better." Mrs. Hudson got up and hugged Sherlock. "You look a lot better."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson" said Sherlock as he faked a smile. He looked over at John who was trying to ignore him by flipping through the channels.

"I brought you boys dinner. John told me that the doctor said you need to eat more so I won't leave until I think you've had enough."

Sherlock sighed inwardly as he noticed the aluminium foil covered dish sitting on the small coffee table in front his favourite seat.

"Fine." Sherlock knew he couldn't argue with Mrs. Hudson. She may have been small but Mrs. Hudson was a fierce little Chihuahua when she needed to be.

Sherlock sat down and began to eat. It was a simple meal of roast beef with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables. Sherlock had to admit that it tasted good and he was actually hungry. He tried his best to eat it slowly and civilly but he was tempted to gobble up the food.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock genuinely between one bite.

When Sherlock was finished, Mrs. Hudson shoved a cup of tea into his face and made him drink that as well. The rest of the evening went about in a similar manner. Mrs. Hudson would occasionally push a drink in Sherlock's face and not leave until he drank it. She left one time to grab a cake she had made for his homecoming and made him eat two slices. Sherlock appreciated the concern but he was beyond grateful when at ten she had announced that she was going to go home to turn in for the night. John followed suit, leaving Sherlock in the living room all by himself.

Bored and not wanting to go to bed, Sherlock texted Lestrade inquiring if there were any new cases. Lestrade responded with a no and urged Sherlock to rest. John had notified Lestrade about the previous day as well. Who else did John tell? With nothing else to do, Sherlock resigned himself to his bed.

The next day, Sherlock awoke to find himself feeling refreshed and renewed as if the past two days did not happen. He felt so good that he was tempted to literally hop out of bed. Sherlock swung his legs over the side of his bed and slipped his foot into is bed slippers. He noticed that his shoes felt a bit odd on his feet but he shrugged it off. However, when Sherlock found himself flat of his face after taking two steps he decided to take a closer look. What Sherlock saw absolutely perplexed and horrified him. The three middle toes on his left foot and the two last toes on his right foot were grey. They felt solid like stone. It terrified him further when he tried to moved them and realised he couldn't. He couldn't feel his toes either.

"What the hell?" Sherlock whispered. He contemplated calling on John but stopped himself. He didn't want John to worry and they were apparently still not speaking to each other.

Sherlock lifted himself off his bedroom floor and slowly proceeded to the bathroom.

Later that day, Sherlock found himself unable to focus as he walked through the scene of a recent murder. Lestrade had texted him earlier asking for his help. From what Sherlock observed, he deduced that the murder was designed to look like an isolated event but could have been the work of a serial killer. That was as far as Sherlock's mind allowed him to venture. The pressing matter in him mind was his morning discovery. Before receiving the text from Lestrade, Sherlock was about to persuade Molly to let him use her lab privately but he just couldn't resist the case Lestrade offered him.

Sherlock glanced one more time at the victim's body before notifying Lestrade of his findings.

"Despite it's appearance, Lestrade, this homicide is not as unique as it appears. This murder looks a lot like Cardiff murder from two years ago, if you remember it."

Lestrade did indeed remember that murder. It was so brutal and he had dreamt about it for weeks afterwards. The victim was stabbed twice in the head with two chisels, one in each eye. The chisels were left there and were embedded deep into the victim's head but that was not the worst of the damage. The worst of the damage was done to the victim's mouth. All her teeth were extracted and forced down her throat and her tongue had been cut out and replaced with chimp's tongue that had been reattached. The chimp from which the tongue came had been kidnapped from a near by zoo a few days before the murder.

The victim is this case, though still brutally murdered seemed have succumbed to a less painful end. Though bloody, this murder was still cleaner than the Cardiff's murder. In this case, the victim's neck had been slashed and his heart had been cut out and replaced with a frozen cow's heart. There were no signs of bruises, no traces of injuries anywhere else on the victim's body.

"Yeah, it still gives me nightmares." Lestrade muttered.

At that moment, Lestrade looked over to Sherlock, noticing that he was distracted, which is how he appeared all day. It was strange and it concerned Lestrade.

"You okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" asked Sherlock.

"I'm just asking, seeing that you were ill the other day and John's not here so I'm assuming that you two are still not talking."

"I'm fine. I just fainted and I don't need John in order to be able to do my work."

All of which were a lie. Sherlock was far from fine but he didn't want Lestrade to know. The only person he really wanted to talk to at the moment was the only person who did not want to speak to him. He missed John so much.

"You know I can tell you're lying, Sherlock. Anyone who knows you and John know that something's wrong. It's written all over your face."

Sherlock simply turned and walked away. Lestrade tried to call him back but he ignored him. He didn't want to continue his discussion with Lestrade.

That evening, Sherlock headed straight to his room and closed his door, something he didn't often do. He wanted to talk to John while not wanting John to see him. Also, he knew Mrs. Hudson would be up soon to check on him and he definitely did not want to see or talk to her.

In the privacy of his room, Sherlock began to undress in front his bedroom mirror. He proceeded to check his entire body. Much to his terror, all ten of his toes were stone. Not only that but he could see his feet turning to stone before his very eyes. It was gradual but he could see it. "The Petrifying", as he termed it was now pass his metatarsals and inching its way to his ankles. Sherlock hobbled to bed as fears of what could possibly be happening began to haunt him. Hours later Sherlock was disturbed from his thoughts when he heard the door open, signifying that John was home from the clinic.

"John!" Sherlock called out. "John! Come here quick."

John did not respond. From the sounds of his footsteps, it sounded as if he was walking into the kitchen, which was directly in the opposite direction of Sherlock's bedroom.

"John!" Sherlock called out more desperately, almost on the verge of tears. "John, please come."

Then Sherlock said words that John thought he'd never hear. Words that Sherlock had been meaning to say for days but couldn't until that moment.

"I need you."

Sherlock then heard John's footsteps rush towards him.

"What, Sherlock." Despite trying his best to still appear angry, John couldn't keep his worry look completely out his face and voice.

"This," was all Sherlock said as he tossed aside his bed sheet to reveal his stone feet to John.

Sherlock bit his lip in efforts to hold back his tears as he watch various emotions flicker across John's face.

Confusion. Sadness. Horror. Curiosity. Then finally anger.

"What did you do, Sherlock?" John demanded, trying his best to keep his voice even and civil.

"I didn't do anything, John. When I woke up it was just my toes."

"Is this some sort of joke, Sherlock? Do you really take me for a fool?"

"I'm being serious, John." Said Sherlock sadly. He looked up, his vision blurry with tears begging to fall. He wanted John to believe him so badly because he was just as confused by all that was happening.

"Oh really? And this is not a ruse to get me to talk to you?"

"No, John. Touch my feet. I'm just as confused as you are."

Reluctantly, John touched Sherlock's feet. They were so hard and cold.

"This is actually pretty good. Did you get Mycroft to help you with this? Play another prank on poor, stupid, ordinary John."

John made no efforts to hide his hostility at that point of the conversation. John slapped the bottom of Sherlock's foot to test for a hollow spot that would betray the make up. What John found instead, was solid stone. In fact, he almost broke his hand.

"I have to admit, this is some good work." John said, biting back a scream.

"It's real, John!" Sherlock was now more than annoyed and just wanted John to believe him.

John sat on the bed at Sherlock's feet.

"I don't understand," he said, his anger breaking into confusion.

"Neither do I."

"Have you told anyone else about this? Mycroft?"

"No." Sherlock said firmly. "And I don't intend on doing so either."

Sherlock and John stayed up the rest of the night talking about the situation. Once in a while, John asked Sherlock if he wasn't just pulling and elaborate prank. He knew that he already believed that Sherlock was telling the truth but he didn't want to face the consequences of it being so. By the time the sun rose, Sherlock was petrified from mid-calve down and John had convinced Sherlock to let him call Mycroft. Neither of them had any clue as to what was happening to Sherlock but if there was anyone who could help, John believed it would be Mycroft.

It was now the tenth time in the past hour that John caught himself biting his nails. He was all but going mad. Earlier that day he had called Mycroft. He did not notify Mycroft of the situation but just said that it was a matter of Sherlock's health and they need him to come urgently. An hour after the phone call, Mycroft came bargaining 221B Baker Street with a team of doctors. By that time, John had managed to get Sherlock cleaned and dressed and they were actually in the middle of having breakfast. After a quick assessment, the doctors concluded that more testing needed to be done. Mycroft revealed that he had brought with him a private ambulance, discretely painted to look like a civilian car. Mycroft took John and Sherlock to a hospital on a secret military base in Manchester. That was over eight hours ago.

"John." It was Mycroft. His features were solemn.

John stood as he heard his name called.

"You should go and see him. They're about to give the results of the test." Mycroft leaded John back to Sherlock's room.

John rushed into Sherlock's hospital room and stood by the side of his bed. After eight hours of testing. They were finally briefing Sherlock on the results. John grasp Sherlock's hand nervously only to find that his fingers were starting to turn into stone as well. John knew then that there was no good news.

"I'm sorry to inform you but the lab results were all inconclusive. None of them can explain or give any indication as to what is happening and why."

John grip tightened more, he knew Sherlock couldn't feel it but he wish Sherlock could.

"Based on our observations, at this rate, Mr. Holmes, you'll be completely stone within the next three days."

The doctors then left Sherlock and John to be alone. Mycroft followed behind them, indicating that he would continue the discussion elsewhere. There were so many questions circulating in both their minds but they both concluded that the other must have been thinking on the end. Would Sherlock if he was turned completely into stone? How did this happen and what can be done to stop it?

"What's happening to me, John?" asked Sherlock dejectedly.

John could only offer his hand and a silent response. He was just a baffled and terrified as Sherlock.

The first night after the news was the hardest for John and Sherlock. John stayed by Sherlock's bedside all night, holding his hand and stroking his hair. By the next morning, Sherlock was completely petrified from waist down and from elbow to finger. A new X-ray revealed that even Sherlock's organs were turning to stone and losing function. Sherlock had lost the function of all his pelvic organs, which meant that although his stomach still worked, he had no way to absorb his food or evacuate waste. Sherlock would have to go without food or drink for the duration of petrification.

Sherlock wasn't too concerned with not being able to eat or drink having gone without doing so so often on cases. What occupied his and John's mind was his heart, brain and lungs. When they became stone would Sherlock simply die? Admittedly, neither of the two was ready to face the prospect of Sherlock dying, especially at such short notice.

With such a limited mobility, Sherlock had no choice but to just lie in bed and suffer his thoughts. The previous days kept playing in his mind. What had he done in the past few days that was different from what he usually did. Nothing really, when he thought of it. The only thing that stood out in his mind was the woman that showed up at his door the day he went to the hospital. Coming to think of it, Sherlock felt completely fine up until she began speaking in that language he didn't understand.

 _It couldn't be._

Sherlock wasn't one to consider himself superstitious. He knew better. He believed in logic. Everything had an explanation, no matter how farfetched. Had he truly eliminated all the impossibilities?

"John." Sherlock weakly groaned.

"Yes Sherlock?" John immediately pulled closer and became attentive to Sherlock. He quickly scanned Sherlock. Sherlock's face, although still only flesh, was looking pallid and beaded with sweat despite being cold to the touch.

"Do you remember the morning I went to the hospital?" Sherlock gave a small gasp before breaking into a coughing fit. "The woman?" Was all he managed before he gasped for air. His petrification was starting to affect his chest. He guessed he would get an answer to his unspoken question soon.

"Woman? At the door?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

John pursed his lips as he thought. "I do. Strange lady. She said something to you, didn't she?"

Sherlock nodded again.

"I think." Sherlock coughed again. "She was at a crime scene," Sherlock wheezed. "The other day."

John grunted. "The one with the cow's heart?"

Sherlock shook his head. "The one before that. Decapitation."

"Hmmm." John stroked his chin as he tried to place himself back to that day. It was the day that he and Sherlock had their last fight; the one that led to them not talking to each other for days. John tried to remember everyone he saw there: Lestrade, Anderson, Sally and their teams. And then there was green.

"She was wearing green, wasn't she?"

Sherlock nodded again.

John tried to remember more but he couldn't. He remembered her features –her black hair and pale skin- but he couldn't quite remember her face. He only remembered her because her clothes stood out.

"She watched our whole fight." Said Sherlock as he began to think back to that fight specifically. Sherlock had been very crossed with John after John sided with Anderson's theory for the murder over his. In retrospect, what Sherlock had said to John was harsh. He used a tone and insults he had only reserved for Anderson. John, being his closest friend in the world deserved more.

Now that he thought of it, Sherlock supposed he could have treated people better, especially Molly. He knew she was in love with him and he had no interest in returning the favour. He should have told her so to let her go on with her life but instead he used her feelings for him to his advantage and strung him along to get favours from her. He now truly regretted the way he treated her and as he laid in bed, Sherlock thought about how he'd never get to see Molly again. How he'd go without even apologising to her. She had no clue where he was at the moment.

"You think she had something to do with what's happening to you now?"

"I don't know what I think anymore, John. None of this makes sense to me."

Sherlock then relayed the words the strange woman had said to him the day he first started feeling sick.

"I have no idea what she said. I don't know the language she spoke."

John was just as perplexed. He didn't know what to say or do anymore. He sat in silence with Sherlock for the rest of the day. Both only speaking when a doctor came in to check on Sherlock.

The next day brought mixed news. Mycroft revealed that he had security cameras all over Sherlock's room and had been listening on him and John's conversation from yesterday. While Sherlock was not at all shocked by the news he was still angry with Mycroft for invading his privacy. The good news was Mycroft was able to record the foreign words Sherlock had spoken.

"It took us a while." Said Mycroft. And by a while, he meant longer than five minutes. "But we found someone who could decipher what was said to you."

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes being that it was all he could do now. Despite the fear and grief he felt, Sherlock was quite fascinated with his condition now. The doctors came in to check on him this morning to find that only his head and half his neck was now unpetrified. The petrification was happening at a faster rate than they had anticipated. Sherlock was now going to be completely stone by the end of the day. His lungs were stone and his heart was stone yet still Sherlock was still alive. He wasn't breathing and his heart wasn't beating. For all intents and purposes, Sherlock was technically dead yet, he was still talking, still thinking. Sherlock was still alive. There was no explanation and that this gave Sherlock and John hope.

"Believe it or not, it's a curse."

Sherlock held himself back from expressing his disbelief, how could he in the condition he was in? John however had no such qualms.

"What? Really, Mycroft? This is a serious matter and you're going to joke about it?"

"I understand how you feel, John, but as you can see, I too am not laughing. It's a curse and it's Armenian in origin. It reads: _Eyes of snow, heart of stone, make the physical hard and cold. Sentence to hell the one who alone make contention his to own._ "

"Contention his to own?" whispered Sherlock. His larynx was starting to petrify. Sherlock didn't feel any smugness in realising he was right. All that was happening now had something to do with his fight with John. Sherlock began thinking back to his previous interactions on the field. Besides Anderson, he didn't go out of his way to insult or disrespect anyone.

John and Mycroft frown as the entire room fell into contemplation. John was the one to break the silence.

"I suppose you can be a bit antagonising but if she only witness how you interacted with me and Anderson that day…" John trailed off.

"No, this couldn't have been a result of just one fight." Mycroft added. "My source tells me this is a very complicated curse and only a few gypsies can perform it. The person who cursed you had to be powerful and had to be following you for sometime in order to feel justified in doing what they did."

"Is there any way to reverse this then, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"I honestly don't know." Mycroft made eye contact with Sherlock. Both their eyes were glossed over from tears they refused to shed. John's face mirrored the same anguish the brothers felt. "We're working on something but the doctors believe that from what they observed, you'll still be alive even when you become a… _statue_."

With that, Mycroft stepped outside Sherlock's room to take a call. The room fell silent for a few minutes. Lately, it seemed like that was all John and Sherlock could do together. Stay silent. They both had so much to say to each other so many thoughts to think but just couldn't bring themselves to acknowledge that they were near the end. They would sooner rather than later have to say goodbye.

John wanted to say so much to Sherlock. He wanted to tell Sherlock how infuriating he was as a roommate. How angry Sherlock always made John whenever he acted like John's time wasn't important. How disgusted he felt seeing severed body parts all around their kitchen area. And, he wanted to thank Sherlock for it. If it weren't for Sherlock, John would have probably still have his psychosomatic limp. He would have probably still been seeing his therapist and he would have either been homeless or living in a crappy apartment. Sherlock made John and by extension, John's life, interesting. Yes, Sherlock was unbearable at times but John had learnt so much being in his presence. He felt so alive around Sherlock. And he wanted to tell Sherlock that but he couldn't.

"I wish my Mum and Dad were here." Sherlock said abruptly.

His parents had been overbearing at times but Sherlock did count himself lucky for still having them around. He imagined that if they were with him, his dad would have been the one to breakdown from before they reached the base and his mum would feel hurt too but she'd try to put up a brave front. Sherlock imagined that his mom would kiss him on the cheek and tell him everything would be alright, like she did when he was a child, but this time they'd both know it's a lie and be okay with it.

Sherlock started to feel his forehead tingle in a familiar way. It was starting to petrify as well.

"John, is my hair turning to stone too?"

John sniffed, he had been next to Sherlock silently crying, knowing that Sherlock couldn't turn his head to see. "Yes, Sherlock. Everything's turning–" was all John could manage before he started to cry audibly.

"John, look at me. At my eyes."

John hesitantly got up and stood over Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were now cloudy as if he had cataracts.

"Can you see anything, Sherlock?"

"A little bit. I can see your face." Sherlock gave a faint smile.

In that moment, John decided that he had to tell Sherlock how he felt. It was now or never.

"Sherlock. I…I just want to say…"

"I know, John. I know. Tell Lestrade that the killer is a religious zealot that failed medical school and works as a butcher." Sherlock gave a faint chuckle.

John shook his head and smiled through his tears. Of course, Sherlock couldn't rest until he solved his case.

"And one more thing, John. I want to remember the feel of your skin as well. Could you touch my cheek?"

John did so, gazing into his eyes. Then he bent down and kissed Sherlock on the lips.

"I want to remember as well."

With that, Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled in content. His lips and eyelids turned to stone. John was happy to see that at least he'd look happy while frozen though John guessed that if he could hear them he'd be bored.

Boredom. _Sherlock's worst nightmare._

John shook the negative thoughts out of his head as he sat with his friend in his last few minutes. Ten minutes later, all of Sherlock's face had turned to stone. Sherlock was gone. John began to bawl. Sherlock was gone.

Mycroft rushed in, his phone still attached to his ear. He slowly approached Sherlock; his eyes still filled with unshed tears and the rest of his features, stoned. The site of it all infuriated John.

"Your brother essentially died and you still can't get off the phone?" John shouted. He wanted so badly to leap over Sherlock's bed and punch Mycroft.

Mycroft looked up at John, acknowledging that he heard John. "Could you please hold? There's something I have to deal with right this second." Mycroft pressed the mute button on his phone.

"For your information, I was on the phone trying to help Sherlock."

"Trying to help. Is that what you call it? He needed you to be there with him, Mycroft."

"Yes, trying to help him! You're being rather unreasonable, John! If you were patient, you would allow me to finish my phone call so I can tell you that we found a few leads to the person who casted the curse on Sherlock and a counter-curse."

John immediately settled down and began to collect himself.

"You wear all your emotions on your face. Honestly! Like a goldfish! You're so excitable."

 _Goldfish?_ "So you're telling me, we could bring Sherlock back?"

"That's exactly what I just said. The lead suspect has already left England and I'm trying to gather some agents to track her down."

John hopped out of his chair and ran other to hug Mycroft.

"He's coming back!"

Mycroft just rolled his eyes. He honestly had no idea how Sherlock managed to put up with John and his emotions.

Later that evening, the doctors came to move Sherlock's body into a special stasis chamber Mycroft had had built for Sherlock. It would ensure that Sherlock would be kept in pristine condition without exposure to mildew, humidity or any other damaging factor as well as X-ray and scan Sherlock's body to monitor it for any signs of change. John was pleased to see that Sherlock wouldn't be neglected, as he could not stay on the military base any longer. He would have to return to Baker Street the next day. Before leaving, John suggested that Mycroft add a radio to the stasis chamber so Sherlock could listen to music and audiobooks. John wasn't sure if Sherlock was still conscious but he imagined that if he were, hearing another voice or music might alleviate some of the boredom Sherlock would face.

The next day, Mrs. Hudson greeted John at the door, confused about him not being with Sherlock. For the sake of Sherlock's safety, John couldn't tell anyone what had truly happened to Sherlock. Instead, John told Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was severely sick and was being flown to a specialist in Germany. John told the same lie when he relayed Sherlock's deductions to Lestrade. He also told Lestrade that he himself would be gone, as he would like to be by Sherlock's side every step of the way. He was only home to pick up some items before leaving.

The truth was, Mycroft had asked John to help with fieldwork in restoring Sherlock. John was at the house and on the field with Sherlock during the incidents that lead to Sherlock conditions so John would have some idea of how to identify the curse-caster. Plus his military training meant he knew how to covert and fight to defend himself if necessary.

John took one last look around before he left 221B. His eyes landed on a picture at him and Sherlock at their last Christmas gathering at the flat. So many memories; and the place felt cold and empty without Sherlock. John picked up the picture and kissed it.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, we'll get you back."

With that, John locked the flat and left.


End file.
